


A Case of Identity

by Not_Your_Deers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Clue | Cluedo, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25401355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_Your_Deers/pseuds/Not_Your_Deers
Summary: When Sherlock and his friends receive mysterious letters, they find themselves as pieces in a game much larger than they can understand, facing a murderer with an awfully familiar method. Can they find the killer and stop the game before someone else dies?
Relationships: Anthea & John Watson, Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Irene Adler & Jim Moriarty, Irene Adler & Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper & Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper & Jim Moriarty, Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. Prologue - The White Envelope

**Author's Note:**

> We have returned to the Sherlock fandom! (In case you couldn't tell, this another one being co-written by both the writers on this account - The Gryffindor & The Slytherin) We hope y'all enjoy A Case of Identity.

A young woman clutches a pile of school textbooks in her arm as she rushes to class, three envelopes perched precariously on the top of the wobbling stack. Her dark hair is a mess of wild curls around her face, and her breaths are ragged and quick. She’s late, practically running so she doesn’t miss whatever lecture or exam she has that morning.

She slows, however, outside of a black door with an ornate golden knocker. The woman almost stumbles, dropping a few of her books onto the steps outside. She kneels down as if to pick them up, glancing nervously at the passersby as she does. It only takes a few seconds for the stack to reach (almost) its full height again and for the young woman to stand up. She continues on her way, eyes a little less frantic than before. 

There are three white envelopes, each sealed with red wax, left behind on the doorstep.

~~~

An elderly man with a kind smile and round silver glasses makes his way into his office. He carries a handful of files under one arm, his walking cane held in the other. The cane is as much an ornament as it is an aid, though the man himself would never admit it. He pauses at the front desk, smiling at the receptionist (a pretty young woman with short blonde hair and innocent eyes) and drops the files beside him as he talks to her.

They talk for a few minutes of small things, and then he pauses, face suddenly becoming stern and almost worried. From the middle of the pile of papers he brought with him, he pulls out an envelope. It’s white, a nice old-fashioned sort of envelope with a seal, exactly the sort of thing you’d expect a man like him to carry, and there’s a slight bulge in its centre that suggests something other than paper is inside.

The receptionist leaves the single white envelope beside her on the desk, continuing to work.

~~~

A man in a delivery uniform strides up the steps of a London apartment building, packages and envelopes in the bag at his side, making his usual rounds. He brushes past one of the building’s inhabitants - an older woman with greying hair - as he walks, but she barely acknowledges his presence. He has come to this building every day, more or less, for years, and as far as she’s concerned, he’s barely more than scenery.

He reaches the entrance, slipping each parcel into its respective mailbox with practised efficiency. This box is for Ms Mikleton in 2A, and this letter is for the Holleys in 4B, on and on like he’s done a thousand times. But today, the buzzer sounds when he’s finished, and he heads up into the building, to apartment 4A, a single package now held tightly in his hands. The person who let him up says nothing, and he doesn’t even know their name.

He leaves the white envelope just outside the door, laughter echoing from inside, and doesn’t bother to knock.

~~~

A teenage boy, with a coat pulled up close around his chin, leaves his mother’s apartment on his way to visit a friend. He’s bouncing back and forth on his heels with an unmistakeable sort of excited energy, one hand in his pocket to keep from fidgeting, and the other holding tight the white envelope he pulls from beneath his jacket. He makes his way quickly down the hallway.

The door he’s looking for is just like the others, unassuming, and he’s not sure why he has to deliver the package there of all places - the owner isn’t even anything special, quiet and kind but rarely at home after long hours. She’s home today, though, he thinks, so he makes sure he’s quick like he promised. He kneels in front of the door quickly, as if to tie his shoelaces, and then stands and knocks

When she opens the door, all she’ll find is a white envelope with a red seal, lying harmlessly on the carpet.

~~~

A businesswoman, neat hair piled in a bun on top of her head, makes one of many stops on her daily walk to work. But she doesn’t stop at the small cafe on the corner for her morning coffee, or at the library to return a borrowed book, or at a particularly interesting pop-up stand, but at a house. It’s a tall, imposing building, with greek columns and a sturdy black door, beyond even what someone of her means could afford.

She approaches slowly, glancing side to side as she does, and stops right in front of it. From her briefcase, she pulls an envelope, its soft, expensive paper matching the elegant design of the house before which she stands. She pushes the letter - or whatever is held within the envelope, as it seems too lumpy to be simply a letter - through the slot and turns away. 

The envelope lies, red wax seal face down on the wooden floor, for hours until it is noticed and picked up.

~~~

A grandmother, having just dropped her grandchildren back home with her son, takes a detour down a secluded forest path in the middle of nowhere. Her old Mini was green once but has turned black with mud and dust and overuse, and it blends in almost perfectly to the darkened concrete and evergreen trees. In the seat beside her, where her only granddaughter had sat only minutes before, lies an envelope.

The envelope is white, maybe a little on the large side as envelopes go, with a red seal that even she finds old-fashioned and a name scrawled messily across the front. She reaches her destination all too quickly, pulling up in front of a quaint old house somewhere in the grey area between cottage and castle (a grey area she had not previously known to exist) and steps out, looking for somewhere to leave her charge.

In the end, the envelope lies inside a plant pot just beside the grand front entrance, half-covered by leaves.

~~~

A tall blond man with a sharp jaw and a small scar beneath his lip climbs out of a black car. He doesn’t bother to hide his intent as he strides up to the entrance of a plain-looking apartment building. A young girl of maybe fifteen sits on the steps, playing on her phone with one earbud in, but one glare from her sends her out into the street, clearing his way. He presses the button for the ground floor apartment, and after a moment they let him in.

He enters but continues climbing the grand staircase (the building, despite its shabby exterior, is old and beautiful) to the top floor instead. His steps sound like thunder on the old metal of the steps, and he holds a brown envelope casually in his left hand as his right hovers near the pocket of his jacket. He slides the envelope through the narrow gap beneath the door and lingers for a moment before he turns away.

The man on the other side of the door picks up the envelope as soon as it appears - he’s been waiting for it.


	2. The Beginning

Mrs Hudson makes her way up the stairs to 221B Baker Street quickly -  _ one or both of the flat’s inhabitants has mail _ \- and her heels - _ just come back from Mrs Turner’s  _ \- thump loudly on the carpeted steps. She pushes the door open with a creak and Sherlock, lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling, doesn’t bother to turn to look. She hovers for a few moments in the doorway then approaches John. The creaky floorboard next to John’s armchair makes an awful sound as she steps on it and Sherlock winces. 

“Here, John,” she says cheerfully.  _ So the package was for John, then.  _ Sherlock hears the ripping of paper -  _ nice paper, probably sent by someone with a lot of money, maybe Mycroft -  _ and more of Mrs Hudson’s footsteps. 

Suddenly, a white envelope drops straight onto Sherlock’s face, covering his eyes. He jumps up, the envelope falling into his lap, sputtering loudly. Mrs Hudson laughs as he turns to face her with wide, offended eyes and John soon joins her.   
  
“It’s for you, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says helpfully, sending John into another fit of laughter. His envelope -  _ the same as Sherlock’s, fascinating  _ \- sits still unopened on his lap. Sherlock decides to ignore them both and focus on the letter instead, looking at it more closely now he knows it’s for him, not John.

_ Large, 4.5 inches by 10.375, #11 with a contour flap. Smooth white speciality paper, sealed with a red wax seal, customised design. Someone’s trying to make an impression. It’s relatively light but the bulge at the centre suggests something other than paper inside. A small item, then, made of a lightweight material, likely plastic. The writing is about average size, indicating a focused mindset, but well-spaced, with lots of pressure - whoever wrote this is organised, but independent and is likely under a lot of pressure. Pointed letters and messy, rushed writing indicates a time-restraint, possibly explaining the aforementioned pressure.  _

_ This is an important package and Mycroft is definitely  _ not  _ the one who sent it. _

Sherlock tears open the package as quickly as possible, disregarding the flap and simply tearing the top straight off. The silence in the room as he pulls out the letter and the item inside -  _ a plastic figurine, as expected  _ \- make him realise John and Mrs Hudson have paused to watch him open his letter, before continuing on with their days.    
  
The figurine is a game piece, he notices immediately, from Cluedo. He’d only played once, but John brought up the incident so often it was hard to forget the game, no matter how many times he tried to delete it. It’s Sherlock himself, surprisingly detailed despite the small size, wearing a black suit and tie -  _ A waiter? No, butler, given the time period _ . He frowns, turning to the note hoping for an explanation. He freezes, a shiver running down his spine as he reads.

In the same messy handwriting, a message is scrawled. It says,  _ You’ve always been the player. Now you’re the piece. It’s my turn to play and this time, I’ll win. _

Beneath it, a poem is typed out in block letters:

**_Eight of you have entered_ **

**_One is not quite what they seem_ **

**_So welcome to my fairytale_ **

**_A dark and twisted dream_ **

**_The time before, death at your door_ **

**_Save one, save all_ **

**_His frozen smile waits awhile_ **

**_Come and watch them fall_ **

**_And let the game begin_ **

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson says, breaking his frantic chain of thought, “You got one too.”

Sherlock nods, not looking up, and replies, “I imagine John got one the same.”

At the same time, John says, with horror in his tone, “Too?”

The two men meet each other’s eyes, each surprised by the other’s comment. Sherlock waves a dismissive hand at Mrs Hudson, who scurries down the stairs, hopefully searching for the letter she had apparently received. Meanwhile, John finally removes the contents of his own envelope, hands steady -  _ he thinks this is dangerous _ \- and face carefully blank. 

His has a note and a figurine as well. Sherlock approaches, taking the figurine from his hand. His, again like Sherlock’s, is a miniature version of John Watson himself, wearing a green three-piece suit and clerical collar.

“Reverend Green,” John observes, looking at the figure as well. 

Sherlock shrugs, “Is he?”

Mrs Hudson reappears, carrying a note and a figurine of her own -  _ moving quietly, hands shaking slightly, she’s scared _ . John immediately recognises hers.

“And Ms White,” he says, eyes widening, “This is all Cluedo based.”

Sherlock hands his figurine to John casually, pulling it from where he had stored it in one of the pockets of his jacket. 

John frowns, an expression Sherlock can’t place ( _ frustration? guilt? disgust?)  _ crossing his face. 

“Wadsworth. From the film.”

“There’s a film?”

“Of course there’s a film, it’s called Clue.”

“Clue? Why Clue?” Sherlock asked with a sneer, beginning to pace, “They ruined the fun of the name!”

“Never understood why it was called Cluedo to begin with,” Mrs Hudson adds -  _ she’s still here? -  _ and they turn to look at her. John nods in agreement and Sherlock simply rolls his eyes.

“Ludo,” he says, tone harsh, “I play, it’s Latin, Mrs Hudson. What must it be like in your brains?”

John sighs, “Does this mean there are more? The other characters?”

Sherlock stops in his pacing, turning to John, raising his hands enthusiastically.

“Yes, John!” he exclaims, then adds more quietly, “Who are the other characters?”

Mrs Hudson, realising they’re going to be there a while, sits down on the sofa -  _ her bad hip’s acting up again -  _ and Sherlock begins to make his way towards the kitchen as John talks. 

“Well, there’s Mrs Peacock, Ms Scarlet, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard and… Yvette? The Maid? If we’re counting the film characters there’s the maid too.”

Sherlock nods, “Good, good, what else can you tell me? Start with us,” he asks. He returns from the kitchen, carrying three cups of tea carefully in his hands, placing one before Mrs Hudson, giving one to John and taking a drink from the other. John frowns at him but takes a sip of the tea anyway -  _ milk, no sugar, just as he normally drinks it _ .

“Well Wadsworth, the butler, is the detective. That’s probably why he’s you,” John explains.

“He’s also the villain, in one ending,” Mrs Hudson pipes up.

Sherlock frowns, taking another sip of his tea, “There are multiple endings? How… quaint.”

“Then there’s Reverend Green,” John continues, ignoring Sherlock, “and he-”

The doorbell rings. 

Sherlock grins at John, his smile the wild, almost feral sort he wears before a particularly exciting case. 

“I suspect we’ve found our next player.”

Mrs Hudson opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing Sherlock's POV, so would be interested to hear what you guys think. Anything Sherlock says in his deductions (like the envelope type and handwriting analysis) is just from Google, so feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> We hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Stay positive and enjoy your summer/winter! 
> 
> (Comments including constructive criticism are what we live on and are greatly appreciated)
> 
> \- Not_Your_Deers 🖤


End file.
